


hungry like the wolf

by midsommur



Category: The Batman (Movie 2021)
Genre: F/M, orig posted on my tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:13:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27157774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midsommur/pseuds/midsommur
Summary: there was easily many other things Bruce would rather spend his night doing; yet here he was—sat in his bedroom, helping her decide what costume they should wear to the halloween gala.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 42





	hungry like the wolf

There was easily many other things Bruce would rather spend his night doing. He didn’t have enough fingers to count all the other alternatives—wants and needs alike. For instance, he _wanted_ to stay home with her, would prefer it above all things. And he _needed_ to spend a few more hours attempting to crack this damn cipher that was left behind for him at the latest crime scene.

And yet here he was—sat in his bedroom, helping her decide what costume they should wear to the Halloween gala. That _he_ was throwing.

These damn things, they gave him more grief than the rogues plaguing the city. They were just an excuse to give criminals an opportunity to incite more terror while the elites of the higher-class society turned a blind eye. Vacant homes to stage more illicit crime scenes in, to rob unguarded safes and unsuspecting vaults.

At the very least, he had come to expect it by now. What bothered him most of all was how he was forced to allow it to happen, as he faked a chivalrous grin for the sanity of Gotham’s citizens. An image of peace and care-free charm, as if the city wasn’t on the precipices of being overrun by the worst of the worst.

There was _some_ light in the situation, though. She would be accompanying him, as she always did. Time spent with her was always time well spent, no matter what they would be doing. And if she ever got wrangled into conversations that didn’t require his presence (as she usually did, a fault of her own enigmatic magnetism and enthralling beauty), he would probably find a way to sneak off and attend to other, say, _pressing matters_.

“You’re really no help, I hope you know that,” her voice breaks his wandering thoughts. He blinks away his blank stare, looking up at her pouting face.

“I’m sorry,” he laments, “But you know that I’m hardly going to be there.”

With a huff, she turns back to the closet, raking through the garments that were hung in neat lines. Ever the procrastinators, the two of them still had yet to decide on a costume. This wasn’t for lack of trying on her end, and moreso his dismissal of the urgency of the very thing.

“I know you won’t, but still. Dressing up is fun.”

“It gets old.” Bruce deadpans; he would know.

She cranes her neck to look at him, this very specific look that she’s been giving him quite frequently—a pointed stare with crunched eyebrows and a puffed-out bottom lip. He takes it as a wordless sign to quit while he’s ahead.

“What about Jack and Wendy, from _The Shining_ ,” She offers.

“No,” he shakes his head, turning his attention back down to the dossier in his hands, copies of the riddles he’s collected over the time of the investigation. “I won’t wear flannel.”

She makes some sort of frustrated, strangled noise, shrill in the back of her throat, before she makes her way over to his spot on the bed. She then takes the mess of nonsensical papers from his hands, holding them out of his reach. “You’re being difficult.”

Bruce sighs, staring up at her. It’s a familiar view, a position he’s found himself in quite often, when she inspects his injuries and cleans his wounds from long nights of tiresome escapades. The one where she stands before him, looking down at him while he can only look up at her, as if she were something holy. Some higher power, bigger and better than him. An angelic being. She stares down at him with a vague look of vexation and all he can do is smile.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, wrapping his arms around her waist, drawing her closer to him. She stands in between his legs as he holds her close to him, her frustration dissipating into infectious adoration. His undying love for her, so easy to read off his expression, made it so incredibly difficult to stay annoyed with him. “I’m sorry. What are some films we’ve seen lately, maybe we can be something from one of those.”

She tilts her head to the side, in attempt to recollect some names and titles. “Umm,” she hums, rubbing her thumb against his rugged jawline, “There was _A Clockwork Orange_ , but I don’t think we have any of those hats that they wear. And I don’t think I look too good in white.”

“You look great in white.”

“I don’t.”

“You look great in anything.”

“Umm,” she laughs, moving her hand from his jaw to his mouth in an eager attempt to get him to stop talking. His praises made her squirmish—a tactic he _knew_ worked too well and used too frequently. “We saw _Buffalo 66_ , too, with Christina Ricci.”

Bruce takes her wrist in his hand, angling it so that he could take one of her fingers into his mouth. “Uh-huh,” he responds, a grin breaking out onto his face at the sight of her short-circuiting. He knew just how to get under her skin, and all the faces she’d pull to make it seem like his ministrations had no effect on her. Her wide eyes and parted lips with upturned corners said otherwise.

“Mmm,” she thinks, mind blanking on the countless number of films she _knows_ for a fact they had just seen—when it suddenly hits her. “ _Oh_!” she squeals, pulling her hand away from him as she scrambles away to the closet.

Dragging his sleeve across his mouth, Bruce leans forward to follow her movements. “What?”

“ _Wolf of Wall Street_ ,” she calls, reemerging from the closet with two vaguely similar dresses, just varying shades of pink. She lays them both out on the bed, squinting her eyes as if she were analyzing them deeply. “You don’t even have to dress up,” she tells him off-handedly. “Just wear a suit.”

“Oh,” he nods, suddenly aware. “Jordan and Naomi.”

“Yeah,” she affirms, holding both dresses out in front of her body. “Which one’s more like the movie?”

“That one,” he decides, after faking some time spent trying to decipher a slight difference between them. They were very similar, and they both looked like the dress from the film—off the shoulder and long sleeved yet still very short—but he knew that if he didn’t pick for her, they would never make it on time. She wasn’t anything if she wasn’t a perfectionist.

“Okay. Thank you,” she smiles, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips before scurrying off to the bathroom to get ready. As the door shuts, he falls back against the mattress, reaching back for the dossier that had been discarded. He figured he would have time to scan over the anagrams some more, before they left.

Truthfully, he didn’t want to spend his night thinking about what it could all mean. He _wished_ , with everything in him, that he didn’t feel this dire urge to do more than what was needed, to take matters into his own hands and do what the police couldn’t. But his self-imposed duty was all too strong, and it weighed too heavy on his conscience. The insurmountable blame and guilt would always find its way onto his lap. It would always be his fault. The deaths would always be in his name.

And nothing would ever be enough.

_What does a liar do when he’s dead?_

The question taunts him for what feels like hours, until she reemerges from the bathroom, like a distracting blessing in disguise, to take him away from these treacherous games. She’s done up in this ribbed fuchsia dress that fits her like second skin and makes his jaw fall, along with matching heels. Her wrists glitter with the bracelets she’s adorned them with and her lips sparkle with the pink gloss she’s painted on.

She was a vision. She was a distracting, enchanting, captivating vision—and for half of a second, he’d forgotten about all the troubles that were plaguing his mind.

“What’s wrong, _daddy_?” She quotes, unable to hide her eager smirk. She was never one for subtlety; she knew exactly what she was doing to him.

Bruce, for once, is unable to find words. It’s like she’s stolen them from him, holds them away and taunts him with them, and all he can do is watch her every move, like a dog being teased with a bone.

“Come on,” she tells him, “I have to do your hair.”

He blinks. “My hair?”

“Yes,” she raises her eyebrows, as if it shouldn’t be any question. “Jordan has his hair pushed back.”

“I don’t push my hair back.”

“Well you’re not Bruce Wayne,” she retains, “You’re Jordan Belfort. Jordan Belfort does his hair. He pushes his hair back.”

He concedes wordlessly and lets her style his hair. Though he knew it was childish, he truly didn’t care to keep up with appearances, a habit he found tirelessly frivolous. He acknowledged its importance, yet he couldn’t bring himself to care to do it. At most, if his hair was overgrown, she’d wrestle him into a seat and threaten him with a pair of scissors, and only then would he let her cut it.

Though he doesn’t know why he’s been so adamant about it in the past, because now, he realizes how good her hands feel, working their way through his scalp, parting it, gelling it, slicking it back. He sighs contentedly, leaning into her touch. Melting.

**

She thinks that if there was anything to blame it on, it would be the cologne. Bruce had this extensive collection of colognes, almost all gifts from her, a last minute solution to the fallible question as to what to buy the man who has everything. A material item to accompany all intangible, priceless gifts she would present him with later.

So, she thinks that’s the reason she associates his colognes with sex. That’s probably why.

She’s bad with names, and she can’t pinpoint this specific scent, but whatever it is has her pressing her face into his neck, as if she were trying to inhale it deeper. It’s sharp, minty, and masculine.

She groans against his skin.

The sound makes him chuckle, knowingly. He lifts his hand and holds the back of her neck, stroking his thumb against her nape.

This, too, causes her to squeeze her legs together. “How much longer, ‘til we get there,” she asks him meekly, muffled against his skin.

“Probably a little while,” he answers, still rubbing her neck. “Traffic’s bad.”

With all the strength she can muster, she pulls herself off of him so that she could look him in the eyes. This way, he would know she was serious.

“Do you remember that scene?”

Bruce smiles, gaze falling to her lips. “The film was 3 hours,” he tells her, voice languid and slow. He already seems to know what she’s getting at, yet still he plays it out as long as possible. “You’re gonna have to be a little more specific.”

“You know,” she says, rising out of her seat and slowly maneuvering herself onto his lap. “The one in the limo.”

Bruce nods. “Oh, like the limo we’re in right now?” he asks her, moving his hands up her sides as she fumbles with his belt. “Yeah, I think I remember.”

Leaning in close to his ear, her breath fanning against him, she whispers, “Maybe we can recreate it.”

A grin, one she’s become very accustomed to, emerges on his face. His hands trail down her hips in an effort to lift her dress up around her waist, when he’s prompted with the realization that she’s not wearing any panties. She answers the wild look in his eyes with an alluring smile. “S’like the movie.”

“Oh, yeah,” he grasps her face in his hands and drags her down into a heated kiss, his teeth scraping against her lips. “You’re a stickler for accuracy, aren’t you.”

Her moan sounds like a breathless response to his rhetorical question as his fingers delve between her thighs. His hands, to say the least, are extraordinarily large in comparison to her. He nearly dwarfs her in every way, so much so that every time he takes her, in this way, she has half a mind to worry if he’d even fit.

He’s got her legs spread and her thighs slick, making it that much easier to get her on his length. With his hands on her waist, he guides her onto him, unable to silence the heavy groan that falls from his mouth, reverberating against her goosebump-ridden throat as he presses sloppy, openmouthed kisses to it. And it’s slow; at first, it always is. Her hands find purchase on his shoulders as she accustoms to just how thick he is, a harsh reminder nearly every time they fuck. The feeling of the strain is all-encompassing, a singular, harrowing thought as she sinks down onto him, grinding slow against him, until they fall into a familiar pace, the slow shock building into a faster, brutish gait.

Her skin is wet—what with the sweat from the tenacity of their movements, to the tears that are already beginning to drip down her cheeks; a result of the overwhelming squeeze, of her tightness, of his girth. She casts her head back as she tries to catch a breath, anything to reprieve the profuse forcefulness that Bruce fucks into her with.

He hisses as she tightens her grasp on his shoulders, her fingernails digging past the material of his shirt. The obscene sounds from the backseat of the limo are rising with every passing moment, the slapping of skin, desperate moans and whining cries. While bouncing on his cock, Bruce takes hold of her back and draws her near him, so that their chests touch as he pounds up into her, in an attempt to muffle the whimpering noises that leave her throat. His hand takes root in her scalp, then, to guide her mouth down against his, so that he could taste her and her aching mewls.

“ _Please_ ,” she begs him, hands shaking as she draws them up to cup his cheeks. “I’m so— _I’msoclose,_ Bruce _please_ ,”

Her begging nearly sends him over the edge in that very moment—what actually does him in, though, is the moments that follow, when he tugs her hair back and the pain and the pleasure, the sick combination between the two makes her come, where he can see it so viscerally in her face and he can feel it around his cock.

Their timing is a bit better, in comparison to the film. They’re able to situate themselves and resemble some sort of decency just before they arrive to the gala, and are greeted with blinding camera flashes.

She blames her stunned expression in the photos on the flashing lights. The true reason is reserved for the two of them—one of many scandalized secrets they’ve managed to keep safe from the prying eyes of the eager city.


End file.
